A reading kind of a day

 

Coulibac

Rain was forecast for Fort Worth today, and I hoped for a cloudy day that would inspire me to spend the whole day reading. It sort of happened—cloudy in the morning, thunder around noon, and a nice rain. But then the sun came out. Didn’t stop me. I kept reading.

My reading choices today were eclectic to say the least. I started with the new and much lauded book, Forget the Alamo, which proposes that the Texas Revolution was all about slavery and nothing more. I have lots of quarrels with the authors, from their narrative tone to a few of the facts—Adina DeZavala was not a raven-haired beauty of twenty-five when she fought to save the long barracks at the Alamo; she was a failed schoolteacher of forty with her hair in a sloppy bun. I think maybe they cherry picked the evidence to support their thesis, but I totally agree that racism was a huge part of the cause of the rebellion. And I was intrigued by a couple of sections—the true story of those Texas History Movies, which people still praise today, and a discussion of how seventh grade field trips suddenly teach Mexican kids that they are the enemy. I still have half the book to go, so maybe more later. I intended to go from there to a Diane Mott Davidson culinary mystery which has me in its clutches. I’ve found caterer Goldy Schultz such good company late at night.

But a friend wrote me that she was reading Rushdie on Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint. I’ve never read anything by Rushdie and always thought he was intellectually beyond me. But I was intrigued—if it was a book, I wasn’t up for it. But it was the text of the first Philip Roth Memorial Lecture. I pulled it up, read it, and was glad I had. Rushdie is not as off-putting as I thought. His literary knowledge is way impressive, his insight into human behavior and cultural similarities penetrating, and his sense of humor just enough to lighten what he says. I read it with respect and enjoyment. And learned a lot about Roth and Saul Bellow. Time well spent.

But what really got me today was a pop culture piece on what the Royals eat. I’m a fan of the monarchy plus a foodie, so this was right up my alley. I can do without lovage soup (Prince Charles’ favorite) and treacle (Prince Harry’s choice) and even that Canadian staple, poutine, which Meghan Markle loves. Kate Middleton drinks some weird health drink with algae for breakfast—no thanks. But Prince Charles’ baked egg was almost like I do it, except I use cheddar instead of whatever hard cheese the Brits use.

But the late Prince Phillipi, may his memory be a blessing, loved coulibac—salmon in a bread wrapping, sort of like a piscatory version of Beef Wellington. I’ve made it, and I love it. And the Queen Mum’s Brussel sprouts—I don’t much like sprouts, but I’m determined to try these—grated and sauteed with olive oil, onion, garlic, salt and pepper and served with a squeeze of lemon. The Queen also likes smoked salmon and eggs for breakfast—obviously a woman who shares my good taste. And she’s fond of Gleneagles pate, composed of trout, mackerel, and salmon—I’m going to look for that in the store, but I doubt with any luck, and I think making it may be a bridge too far. It calls for a total of three pounds of fish and six sticks of butter!

Maybe none of it would be as good as the soy-baked chicken, wild rice, and salad we had for supper tonight. Wish we’d taken a picture before Christian carved it.

Now I’m off to read Goldy Schutz. Rain tomorrow and through Monday. I’ll get so much reading done.

Birth, weddings, death, and all the glories of life

A welcome visitor in the cottage tonight

even if he didn't talk much

One of the most engaging videos I’ve seen lately: Prince William bringing his children to the hospital to meet their baby brother. Love it that he drives himself and the children around London—no driver, no nanny, just daddy. Princess Charlotte was charming, waving at the crowd, while Prince George was a little more solemn. And not long after, William and Kate appeared carrying the as-yet unnamed baby. She looked smashing, considering she gave birth just hours before. And to send mother and baby home so soon—one supposes she has lots of help at home. Still, Kate strikes me as a hands-on mother, one who wants to do those middle of the night feedings herself. I wish them much joy with this new baby.

I am a big fan of the royal family. Barring that episode of Charles and Diana, for which we will not cast blame, they conduct themselves with grace, dignity, and a concern for others. Lord knows w e need such examples in our lives these days.

And sad but not surprising news that George H. W Bush is back in the hospital. I suspect he held on to get through Barbara’s funeral, but all the starch has left him with her death. I fear we’ll have a state funeral before long. Prayers for your peace, sir, from this lifelong Democrat.

Yesterday I went to a lovely dinner party and stayed so late I myself had no starch for blogging when I got home. The Burtons and I joined neighbors Dennis and Margaret Johnson to honor Sue and Teddy and their upcoming wedding. We dined at the Johnsons’ house. They are consummate hosts, and everything was lovely. The meal was a collaboration, and my compliments to Margaret and Jordan who, together, recreated one of my favorite recipes: a leg of lamb set on a cake rack over a vegetable gratin so that the lamb juices drip down into the vegetables. It’s a bit labor intensive, as you baste the lamb every twenty minutes. I made smoked salmon tartare for an appetizer, and Jordan made tossed salad, while Margaret did asparagus. A lovely meal.

The best part about it was the dinner-table conversation We talked about ideas and concepts and such, not just who did what. I relish good conversation and regret that I get it too infrequently. We all seemed wrapped up in “So what did you do this weekend,” and not the stuff that makes the world go around—or that you fear will stop it. Two of us at dinner last night are adoptive parents, and that was a big topic, with Jordan coming in for many questions. When asked when she knew she was adopted, she said, “I always knew.” I pointed out that all her siblings knew where babies came from—the adoption agency—because they were veterans of trips to bring home another baby. Lovely evening with people I’m really fond of.

Yesterday also marked the beginnings of my adventures with adoption and children. It was, gulp, Colin David’s 49^th birthday. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time—he was eight days old before I met him. Neither did I know or understand how much adoption and children would change the course of my life. But, for me, it was a monumental turning point. I never thought much about children until I had them, and then they became the focus of my life. I always say I’m a mother first and then an author and publisher.

I worried a lot about Colin, because he bore the brunt of all I didn’t know about raising babies. But he survived nicely to become a settled, happy adult, a dedicated family man, a religious man, and a professional—CPA. He is often the rock upon which I rely. He seems to have overcome my blundering into parenthood with grace, and I could not love him more nor be prouder of him.

Stories of that day 50 years ago abound, but they will have to wait for that memoir I’m threatening to write about motherhood, adoption, and being a single parent.

Now I’m going to prowl through not one but two cooking magazines that arrived today. Such bounty.